


What They Deserve

by philliam



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (maybe), AND SMOOCHES, Conflict of Interests, Corruption, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exploring Characters, Exploring Relationships, Exploring Thedas, Friendship, Gay and Irresponsible People, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Soulmates (kind of), Trespasser DLC, YOU ARE CRYING, aaaaaaaaaaaand innuendos, blasts trespasser soundtrack through headphones, except there was no one to comfort me after that damn plottwist, i'm not crying, if yes then mostly just hinted/joked about, later in the story:, not sure if there will be any nasty, slow start because introductions, we seriously have to talk about this bullshit, y'all know exactly which one i mean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philliam/pseuds/philliam
Summary: He is a mage. She is a templar, and she would defy the Maker Himself if it means protecting him.His earliest memories of her are bruised knees, and wild hair. Her earliest memories of him are tired eyes, and ink on finger tips.They have to seal the hole in the sky threatening to rip their world apart, but neither knows if at the end they will be the heroes they've always wanted to be, or the villains they've always cursed.





	1. the wrath of heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tutorial on how to react to meeting a friend you thought had died at the Conclave featuring the Herald of Andraste and his childhood friend.

# {the wrath of heaven}

 _those who oppose thee_  
_shall know the **wrath of heaven**._  
_field and forest shall burn,_  
_the seas shall rise and devour them,_  
_the wind shall tear their nations_  
_from the face of the earth._  
_lightning shall rain down from the sky,_  
_they shall cry out to their false gods,_  
_and find silence._

— Canticle of Andraste 7:19

 

 

— [the promise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOFqpwrL9fw) —

 

 

      Eleanor shivered in her coat, and cursed the mountains and the snow and everything that was white, rocky and difficult to climb. Haven was waiting patiently for her just down the hill like a soft promise, but nothing about Eleanor was patient or soft, not when so much was at stake and hope to lose. Her inside was rather much like the ominous green hole in the sky; torn open and raw.

      The letter had arrived two weeks ago, the sentences engraved in her mind and emerging even when she had her eyes closed. _Safe. Mark. Rifts. Haven. Herald._  
     The Free Marches had heard about the explosion at the Conclave. Everyone was dead. Except the Herald of Andraste, but Eleanor hadn't cared much about them at that time. Not when she'd been busy mourning the death of someone who was so important to her, it felt like she'd lost a limb and was unable to function properly.  
     But then the letter came, signed with the official seal of House Trevelyan, and when Eleanor had opened it, less the content but rather the messy, small handwriting — there was so much to say, but so little ink; and he'd always been one so eager to try and put his thoughts and ideas into words on paper, writing and writing, almost as if he was running out of time — announced that Michael Trevelyan was still alive.

      Eleanor was supposed to attend the Conclave as well, following her Knight-Commander Bowen as a right-hand woman and watching after the First Enchanter and her right-hand mage as a neutral party. They were supposed to show that mages and templars living together was manageable, if both parties were treated with respect and the supervision of mages not conducted as if pulling on the leash of a dog. But then the head of House Bowen thought it suitable to try and get the remaining property and belongings of House Vaughn.  
      “There is nothing left. And that little that exists is too much for a single person to handle. A woman, nonetheless,” Lord Edward Bowen had explained to Teryn Maldwyne, ignoring the glaring eyes of his wife, Lady Maldwyne, throwing daggers at him. “Lady Eleanor Vaughn belongs to the Templar Order anyway. House Bowen has strong ties with the Chantry and its Templar Orders. It's only natural that the last heir of House Vaughn will join with us. Let it finally rest, my dear,” he'd finally turned to Elanor. “Trust in path our Maker has chosen for you.”  
      It had taken Eleanor much self-control to not leap over the table and strangle the man, once dear friend to her father, now a greedy enemy hungry for more power. “I am not the last,” she'd said, hands balled into fists under the table. “My brother is still alive.”  
      “Please, now you are sputtering nonsense.” Lord Galados dismissed her words with a boring gesture; the gold rings on his fingers shining under the heavy chandeliers. “Your brother has abandoned your family and Ostwick. There is no word of him.”  
      “That doesn't mean he's dead,” Elenaor had replied, venom dripping in her voice. And then, Lord Galados had given her this pitying, sad look and him being genuine about it was the worst part of it all.

      So Eleanor had stayed and fought for the existence of House Vaughn, and only thanks to the grim and commanding Lady Maldwyne, she'd been allowed to keep the estate, the land and the influence of a once powerful and wealthy house.  
      It seemed so important at that time, like the only reason for getting up and trying day by day was only to maintain what her parents had spent so much time on building for their children. But then the tragedy at the Conclave had happened, and Eleanor had wondered if there was any meaning left in anything.  
      Until the letter arrived. And with the Circle of Ostwick dissolved and no one to wait for her in the Vaughn estate, it took little conviction to make Eleanor pack what little belongings she owned, and journey to Haven, where she now stood in front of the settlement, her eyes searching for a specific person, a specific movement in the crowd, but unable to found it.

      The path opened into a wide field. A blacksmith's forge was busily used under a barely patched roof, and curious eyes glanced at her, pretending that a stranger coming down the mountain path was a common thing. Maybe it was. Eleanor stopped her horse in front of the gates leading up to the Chantry and inside the small village, and was immediately greeted with two soldiers marching towards her, their hands on their sword hilts. Eleanor's own fingers twitched with the need to curl around her sword.  
      The woman spoke first, and Eleanor didn't recognize her accent, wasn't able to place the hard consonants and flat vowels. Even though her eyes were grim and hard, it was a welcoming change from the desolate roads leading up here.  
      “Who are you?” she demanded, and Eleanor instinctively replied with a question as well, just as grim. “Where is he?”  
      The woman didn't flinch. “Who do you speak of?”  
      “You know exactly who I'm talking about.” Eleanor almost spat the next words. “The Herald of Andraste.”  
      The woman narrowed her eyes, her curved, dark eyebrows carried just as much disapproval and hostility like the grim set of her mouth.  
      “Identify yourself first,” she required, but her hand didn't move from her sword, and before Eleanor could say something, another voice joined their conversation. A voice Eleanor could pick out in a crowd of hundred people, one her heart knew just as much as her own.

      “Why do you always have to make such a turmoil wherever you are?”  
      Eleanor pressed her lips into a thin line, and slowly turned around.  
      Michael looked just like Eleanor remembered: Scrappy, mischievous. Unpredictable. It was truly a waste that his grandmother had given him her intelligent, soft blue eyes which in Michael's face seldom knew the difference between mirth and menace. Only his hair was a little longer, curling around his neck and just above his eyes, thick and black in contrast to his fair skin, like ink sinking into white paper.  
      There was really only one thing Eleanor could do, so she quickly closed the distance between them, and punched Michael in the face.

      Michael stumbled backwards, barely catching his falling body on his hands as the soldiers moved to seize or attack Eleanor, but he quickly climbed back on his feet, one hand swiping at the blood from his nose, and said, “No. No, it's alright. I probably deserved that.”  
      “ _Probably_?” Eleanor scoffed, raising her fist again. “You meant to say _definitely_. What were you thinking not contacting me sooner?”  
      “To be fair, I was kind of busy with … you know." Michael shrugged nonchalantly, and it was a wonder in itself how this little gesture nurtured the boiling rage inside Eleanor until it felt like it was spilling outside of her like the energy bursting out of the rifts. "Being the Herald of Andraste and—”  
      “No,” Eleanor cut in. “In fact, I do not know. And I am not willing to believe everything they tell on the roads.”  
      “And what exactly do they tell on the roads?” the woman asked, arms crossed in front of her chest like a shield, like a physical wall standing between her and Michael. Her question sounded more like a challenge.  
      Eleanor raised her chin. A stubborn acceptance.  
      “Lady Cassandra,” Michael said, at the same time the male soldier finally spoke, “Seeker Pentaghast, we should leave them to it. For the moment.” His last words were just as much of a threat as the dark scar on the Seeker's face— straight like her sword and ready to strike, and strangely, knowing that those people were concerned for Michael's life eased the tense in Eleanor's shoulders a little.  
      Giving Eleanor a last inspecting look as if to estimate that she really was no threat, he exchanged a quick glance with Michael, and then they retreated back to the training grounds, heads together in a heated argument.

      “Come,” Michael said, nodding towards the frozen lake a couple feet away from the soldiers training in combat. Someone was quick to undertake looking after Eleanor's horse, so she followed him, feeling like a taut rope ready to snap any minute.  
      “It looks a little like our Circle in Ostwick, doesn't it? Minus all the snow,” Michael started, and to do him the favour, Eleanor indulged in the topic.'  
      “Sort of. I don't understand how people stand living here.”  
      “It's their home. They have a lot of history here.” Michael's voice dropped lower. “Or had. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is destroyed. A lot was lost.”  
      “But a lot was gained as well,” Eleanor countered and led the conversation back to its actual purpose. “The Herald of Andraste.” The words rolled easily off her tongue, but it was hard to look at Michael. The Hero of Ferelden. The Champion of Kirkwall. It was always someone else, someone distant she didn't need to worry about. Until it wasn't. “It sounds big.”  
      Michael gave her a crooked smile. It seemed forced. “It _is_ big. First I'm a criminal, potential murder of the Divine Justinia. Now they treat me as if I'm their only hope.”  
      “And is it true?” Eleanor asked, voice just as low and quiet. “Did Andraste send you?”  
      Michael didn't answer immediately, and instead focused on his intertwined hands.

      The most honest parts of Michael had always been his hands. Ever since they were little, his hands would say the truth that his mouth would not. As if they were the voice of his heart. He had this habit of tugging at his own fingers and fumbling with them whenever he was nervous or unsure; his body was always able to betray him. It was also the reason why he'd always preferred to use his hands for magic, rather than a staff.  
      Now, he was pushing his thumb into the inside of his left hand, slightly scratching at the mark inside his palm.

      “I—“ Michael cleared his throat, pulling Eleanor back to the present. “I don't know … if I am really. Or if this was just a mess of coincidences and—“ He turned around and finally looked at Eleanor. “It's true, I was in the Fade. But the only thing I remember from that place is I was running away from something, and a women helped me escape. And … I was afraid.”  
      “Naturally,” Eleanor said slowly. “You were _physically_ in the Fade. It must have been dangerous.”  
      Michael nodded, but it seemed absent, like he wasn't really sure that was the case but at present, there was no better answer available.  
      “We went to the ruins of the Temple to seal a Rift. Echoes of memories showed that the Divine called for my help. But everything before and after that...” Michael shook his head.  
      “So you really are able to close them,” Eleanor said. “On my way down here through the Storm Coast I saw a lot of rifts. And a lot of demons.” She looked at Michael's hand where little green sparks danced across his palm. “It's...”  
      “Frightening?” Michael finished, a bitter sound to his voice as he clenched his hand into a fist, trying to suffocate the green light.  
      Eleanor frowned. “Incredible,” she corrected him, and because she knew for Michael actions spoke louder than words, she put her hand around his wrist and uncurled his fingers. “We have a problem, and you have the solution. I understand they need you here.”  
      Finally, Michael lifted his eyes and considered her a moment. Eleanor knew him long enough to know what steps his mind proceeded before asking for a favour. Before he open his mouth, Eleanor said: “You want me to stay. But what would you have me do?”

      A sigh of relief left Michael. He pulled his hand back and tipped his index finger against his chin in thought. “We always need someone to dig latrines. Are you interested?”  
      Eleanor gave him a blank expression. “I'm leaving.”  
      But before she could turn around, Michael moved in front of her, and into her path, both hands raised in surrender. As if he really believed _he_ was the one defeated.  
      “Okay, okay. I just want …” Michael exhaled in exasperation, stumbling over his own words. “Maker, since when did it become hard talking to _you_ of all people.”  
      Something about the way he smiled after saying that was so disarming; it was uncertain, and vulnerable— it left Eleanor grasping for the time when they were children, when things were easy and the future of the whole world not laying on the shoulders of a young man.  
      “It's okay, we'll make it work,” Eleanor said. “Somehow. We always do, don't we?” It felt like a huge underestimation of the situation. But sometimes simple was what they needed to remain sane.  
      “We,” Michael repeated. “So you're staying.”  
      “Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily?” Eleanor challenged, not without the hint of a smile Michael quickly mirrored. He turned away, but from the way his shoulders shook, Eleanor could immediately tell he was trying not to laugh. But Michael had always been very bad at keeping his joy inside him; it wanted to break free, wanted to be carried to other people on the wind and make them join in.  
      “Okay … okay! I have to— I have to introduce you to everyone.” Michael could barely contain his excitement, already setting to march back into the compounds of Haven. “And you won't believe me, but Varric Tethras, _the_ Varric Tethras is part of this.”  
      “Are you trying to tell me that he's going to write a story about this? About you?” Eleanor shook her head because she didn't want to think about what that implied.

      Suddenly, Michael took her hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”  
      And that was when Eleanor's world moved back to its original order. She'd missed Michaels hands enormously, his fingers long and bony, with callouses on his palms; when every brush of skin against skin just felt right and proof of them both being alive— and most importantly _together_.  
      Just as quickly, Michael let go and passed her, heading uphill towards the gates.  
      “Oh, and one more thing,” Michael said, looking over his shoulder. The crooked smile on his face was part mirth, part menace— and so typically Michael, something inside Eleanor hurt. “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone and welcome to my first dragon age story! this is my take on dragon age: inquisition, but instead of retelling the events from the inquisitor's perspective, i have one of his companions tell the tale — especially those moments we don't see in the game.
> 
> right now, almost everything is still in development, but i have the story somehow mapped out. i'm going to stay away from in-game dialogue as much as possible, and instead focus on the character development in between the main quests. you'll see my world state/decisions from the previous games as we go.
> 
> if there are any questions, hit me up on tumblr!  
> www.longliveexy.tumblr.com  
> (the ask button is black for some reason[at least for me], but i'm always happy to talk to folks!)
> 
> i've already prepared some moodboards/aesthetics on pinterest (because i'm trash like that i mean i even have a playlist for this self-indulgent crap), but i won't share them for now, since there are some spoilers regarding the story/their character traits/development.
> 
> also waiting for you in the next chapter:  
> › insults  
> › meeting the fam  
> › more insults  
> › nimble, slender fingers  
> › first impressions  
> › varric's manly chest hair  
> › basically exploring haven until someone ends up drunk
> 
>  
> 
> {just a heads-up, i might come and go and edit the chapter/s as the story moves along. no major stuff, just sentences and metaphors/images}  
> {also chapters might become longer}


	2. the threat remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which growing close to some companions and advisors is easier than to others, and someone is really bad at holding their alcohol tolerance.

# {the threat remains}

 

 

 

     Eleanor didn't even try to hide her disapproval. “What in the Maker's name happened to your face?”  
     Michael avoided eye contact. “I … ehrm … bees?”  
     Eleanor shook her head and slapped an Elfroot-poultice with little affection on his face, ignoring his wincing.  
     “Of course. Bees. Here in this cold area,” Eleanor added unconvinced. “And surely our newest recruit has nothing to do with this, yes?”  
     “Sera?” Michael questioned innocently as if he heard the name for the very first time. “No, of course not.”  
     “Of course not.” Eleanor turned around and put the poultice on a shelf. A cool breeze carried the smell of grilled meat and freshly baked bread through the open window. The first villagers, elders and children, gathered for the meal the Chantry sisters distributed with kind smiles and encouraging words. Behind her, Michael hummed to one of the songs Haven's minstrel shared with the patrons at the tavern.

      It's been two weeks since Eleanor's arrival and with each passing day she felt more comfortable in Haven. Handling the cold had been difficult coming from the Free Marches where winter took only about two months until it made way for spring. Eleanor certainly wouldn't miss all the snow if it melted from the mountains. On the other hand, she respected the villagers inhabiting this area, even though she personally lacked envy about that decision.

     Eleanor turned away and faced her bed where Michael was still sitting next to it on a rickety stool. When he didn't move, or made any attempts to continue the conversation, Eleanor retreated to her bed, returning to the opened book laying on top of the sheets. She dropped on the mattress, and apparently that seemed to be an invitation to Michael because as soon as she settled in the cushions with the book in her lap, he took the empty space beside her and looked over her shoulder.  
     “What's this? You want to set up a garden behind the Chantry?”

     Eleanor pressed her lips together, then ran a hand on the open page of her copy of _Ines Arancia's Botanical Compendium_. “I might try. But I doubt I could get to grow anything around here except Elfroot, maybe even Rashvine,” Eleanor said, placing the book on her stomach when she felt Michael slightly pulling at her hair.  
     “It's a lot longer than I remember,” Michael noticed, casually braiding it like it's a daily activity for him. Somehow it was, or at least it used to be when Michael had stilled lived at home and spent time with his older sister. “Want me to get scissors?”  
     “Maker's Breath, no,” Eleanor said, resuming her reading. But apparently Michael had other plans, because he kept talking. “It's also a lot redder than I remember.”  
     “It should be, since I'm washing it in the blood of my enemies,” Eleanor replied casually, earning a snort from Michael.

     “So, what do you think about … all of this?” he asked, waving his hand as if he could encompass everything in this single motion. Again, Eleanor lowered her hands. She looked outside the window, the Breach a daily reminder of the great task they had better accomplished. Sometimes, she awoke early in the mornings and thought it was all a dream; the green light seemed so other-worldly as if the mere existence of it could not be real.  
     “What am I to think about it? I just hope that we'll be able to close the Breach and go home,” she answered truthfully. Outside the Chantry, she heard children shouting and laughing. She wished it not only for her and Michael, but for the sake of everyone.  
     Behind her, Michael nodded. “Naturally. I think it's possible. Closing the breach. And after that?”  
     “Like I said,” Eleanor repeated. “We go home.”  
     Michael didn't answer immediately, and Eleanor instinctively knew he was going to disagree with her.  
     “Since we're in Ferelden, we could journey a little bit, don't you think?” he offered. “There's still much to see.”  
     “Much to see?” The scoff in Eleanor's voice made Michael's finger stop. “Like what.”  
     Michael exhaled slowly, like he was bracing himself for impact. “We could … go and look for your brother.”  
     Feeling Eleanor tensing in front of him, Michael made sure to keep her from running away. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his fingers dug into the soft fabric of her linen shirt. “I know you haven't given up on him.” The words tumbled fast out of his mouth, almost tripping over his tongue. “I'm sure I can use the Inquisition's power to locate him. Up until know, Leliana's spies have always brought back good results. I know they will find _something_.”  
     “Misusing the power of the Inquisition already?” Eleanor didn't mean for her voice to carry so much disapproval but when Michael's hands disappeared from her shoulders, she knew it was the exact opposite. She stood, and the braided pigtail came loose, her hair cascading down her back like a red waterfall. Michael looked at her like a ram caught in a hunter's eye, but that quickly changed, and his eyebrows moved together, frowning. Angry.  
     “Why not? And it's not _misusing_ , no one will come to harm. I will just have them look around and if they find nothing, then so be it.”  
     Eleanor crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Do you even know what you'll have them look for?”  
     Michael threw his hands up in frustration. “I'll come up with something!”  
     But Eleanor shook her head, feeling exhausted already. “You'd leave the Inquisition after sealing the Breach just for that? What will the others think?” Eleanor couldn't imagine the advisors and especially Seeker Pentaghast being content with that decision. But what else would remain to do anyway once the threat was dealt with.  
     “Well, the others just want me for this, don't they?” Michael raised his hand and showed Eleanor his Mark, hidden behind a leather glove. He was good at sounding indifferent about it, but Eleanor could see from the way he dug his fingers into the fabric of his breeches, that it mattered to him more than he'd like to admit. “Once the Breach is closed, what would they need me for anyway.”  
     “Sealing the remaining rifts?” Eleanor offered.  
     Michael shrugged. “I can do that better while journeying through Ferelden, can't I?”

     There was little to argue against it, so Eleanor remained silent. She heard Michael shuffling on sheets, the creek of the bed as he moved. He grabbed something from Eleanor's night stand— a journal, and after skimming through some pages, he lifted his eyes and for the first time since in what felt like forever, Eleanor couldn't read anything in them.  
     “You still have it,” he noticed neutrally, and closed the journal again. Engraved on the cover was a name in silver letters, written in elegant curves. _Calla Trevelyan_.  
     There was nothing Eleanor could do except nodding. Michael hummed, and opened the book again. He looked at his mother's handwriting like it was something foreign, something out of the Fade. Curious, like a new specimen of animal might be curious and interesting.  
     Eleanor knew it must been cruel in his eyes— his mother had given him nothing, but to Eleanor she'd past on all her knowledge about herbalism and the flora.  
     “Then again, I was never much interested in botanic,” Michael said dismissively as if he'd read Eleanor's mind. He returned the journal to its original place, but something about the way he had his shoulders tensed showed that he was a little more bothered by it than he'd like to accept.

     Eleanor closed the distance between them and sat beside Michael, taking his left hand. In response, Michael clenched it into a fist, and Eleanor just held it in her palm for a moment to give Michael the chance to pull away should he really not want her touching him. But Michael relaxed, and eventually allowed Eleanor to uncurl his fingers and tug the glove off his hand. Green sparks danced across his open palm, making his fingers twitch. She saw her own fingers beside his slim ones; a little more tanned and some slightly deformed at her joints when they healed slightly different whenever she broke them during a training sparing with her fellow initiates.  
     “How does it feel?” Eleanor asked, carefully tracing the rims of the scar with her thumb.  
     “Not as bad any more. At the beginning, it was strange. Painful. Pulling against the flow of my own magic, and just so foreign. It's better now. It's, uhm ...” Michael didn't have to finish for Eleanor to know what he wanted to say. _Part of me_. Which was worrisome because they still didn't know where it came from. And why Michael carried it.  
     “I'm glad Solas was here, otherwise it could have turned out entirely different,” Michael continued, watching Eleanor's reaction closely and she knew immediately where this was going.  
     “Yes,” she said with a flat expression. “Convenient.”  
     “Eleanor, what's your problem with him?”  
     “I don't have a problem with him,” she blatantly lied, and Michael pinched her.

     To be fair, she could have acted a little kinder to the person who had looked after Michael right after the explosion, supervising the Mark on his hand with an expertise only the Maker Himself could have placed conveniently in the right time at the right place. And still, nothing could have changed Eleanor's first impression of him.  
     “An apostate,” she'd noticed with little enthusiasm, amazed by how much disdain two words could carry.  
     Solas had offered her nothing but a cool, distant smile. “Technically, every mage is an apostate now. Even your friend, the Herald.”  
     “I wouldn't go _that_ far,” Eleanor returned, instinctively standing between the elf and Michael like a shield. “I know Michael. I don't know you, and I'm not going to take any chances.”  
     The way Solas had dismissed her with nothing but a blunt “Very well” patched Eleanor's expectation of how future conversations and encounters would play out.

     “I know you look up to him,” Eleanor said, because Michael was bad at holding back the excitement whenever he saw a chance to learn and gain wisdom. And with Solas he'd found the perfect teacher. “And you know I'm just being cautious.”  
     “More like paranoid,” Michael mumbled and ducked out of the way before Eleanor could push him off her bed with her foot. “Call it whatever you like. It will save you one day and then you'll be careful to question it again.”  
     Michael snorted, but his silence was as close to surrender as it could get, and Elaenor accepted it.

 

— * —

 

     Sometimes, watching Michael leave Haven with his party was easy. More often, it was difficult and Eleanor felt her heart clench when they disappeared into the mountains. She knew for the task of spreading the name of the Inquisition different abilities were required and Michael had to use different people to get there. It still hurt, when she was not the right person and therefore had to remain in Haven.  
     That left her with the rest of the people left behind. Maybe they even felt the same. Those hours left Eleanor with busy advisers working hours for hours, a broody elf who preferred to keep to himself instead of joining people in the tavern, a crazy elf who loved having Eleanor as the victim of her jokes and pranks, a grim Seeker who could beat Eleanor into the dust and use her to wipe her boots of. Eleanor tried to avoid the training grounds. She hated losing against Lady Cassandra, more so because most of the time it could be avoided.  
     Defeat tasted bitter in Eleanor's mouth, made even more sour whenever Michael decided to take the Seeker with him on his trips to the Hinterlands. Lady Cassandra's abilities were far advanced than Eleanor's, and they didn't come with the negative side effects of the consumption of lyrium, meaning the Seeker was a far better option to keep Michael safe.  
     Still, Eleanor disliked it; disliked being beaten up over and over again. Sometimes, it was easy to get up and pretend she didn't care. Sometimes, getting up hurt more than falling down.

     Nevertheless, Seeker Pentaghast was someone Eleanor looked up to, in both combat skills and acting whenever something needed to be done. She'd earned Eleanor's respect much earlier than anyone else in the camp, closely followed by Josephine and the Adan. Especially during a summoning of the War Council, Ldy Cassandra's stoic and neutral view helped in argument against the advisor's preferred choice of action. It was evident whenever Michael called the meeting to an end, and sighs of relief left him whenever they successfully prevented Leliana from having someone assassinated.

     Today was another day like that, and Eleanor squeezed Michael's shoulder in a poor attempt of encouraging him, and left the room, followed by Seeker Pentaghast. They stepped outside the Chantry, greeted by soft daylight as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. The silence between them was short-lived.  
     “Finally, we make progress in spreading the Inquisition's work,” Cassandra started. “The result is showing with each passing day. You know, I doubted the Herald at the beginning. But nothing of that is left now that I see how vigilant he is in our cause.”  
     Eleanor squinted at the setting sun. There was still some time left before darkness claimed the day, and she'd promised Adan to visit him in the apothecary to share some of Calla Trevelyan's notes on conserving healing gels. “If he was ever anything, then devoted in accomplishing the tasks he's given himself,” Eleanor replied. “He'll give everything, and more.”  
     Seeker Pentaghast nodded, this answer seemed to please her. “I understand that you and the Herald,” she started carefully, her hands fidgeting in a surprising manner of nervousness. Eleanor stopped walking, her eyebrows pulled together.  
     “That we what?”  
     “That you are very close to each other?”  
     Eleanor stared at the Seeker. “We are, which should be a surprise to no one from the way we act around each other. Unless you meant close as in lovers, then no, you don't understand.”  
     “I know, I meant—“ Seeker Pentaghast sighed. It sounded very tired. “I know I am not good at this. I just wanted to say that he is different since you joined us. And that I am glad you did.”  
     Eleanor thought about anything different about Michael, but only little came to her mind, and that circled around the fact that Michael suddenly started to like vegetables. “Different how?” she asked.  
     Seeker Pentaghast thought about it for a moment. “His smile seems … a little warmer.”

     It didn't take long for Eleanor to understand what Lady Cassandra had meant. When she watched Michael interact with everyone around the camp, he used all the noble education he'd received in his childhood; leaving bits and pieces of himself around Haven just to verify _Yes, I was there. Yes, I fulfilled my responsibilities_. Polite smiles and soft nods, distant eyes. After details were exchanged and there was nothing left to talk about, the conversations died, and Michael moved on to attend other matters; a reliable source, but not really _present_ , like petals scattered in the wind one's eyes might follow and wonder _where did they come from. Where are they going_.  
     Only when he lurked around his close companions and advisors, Michael allowed his posture to relax; his shoulders hung a little, his eyes lost some of their hardness. A breath of laughter filled the air.

     With some Michael could connect easily; Sera and Lady Vivienne. Commander Rutherford. With others, he needed more effort and time; Solas, Blackwall. Sister Nightingale. But undoubtedly no one disliked Michael. It was very hard to with the way he tried to please everyone and meet everyone's expectations; with the way there was something so pure and innocent in him regardless of the devastating fire burning away life whenever he swung his staff, or the mischiefs he laughed at. Love clung to the tip of his fingers like the ink he used to write declarations of unification between the Inquisition and powerful forces kneeling in front of him and begging him to use them as a weapon in this fight against the unknown.  
     Eleanor didn't want to admit it, but sometimes she was scared of the power Michael had over people.

 

— * —

 

     When Eleanor wasn't busy with coughing up dust and dirt from losing a fight against Seeker Pentaghast, or throwing daggers at Solas' balded head, she'd sit in her room and try to amplify the herbal journal with recommendations and knowledge of Adan. It was a welcome diversion, if only one Eleanor used as an excuse to retreat to her chambers and dodge Varric's insistence that she'd join a round of Wicked Grace. She gladly spared herself listening to Michael gloating about his win.

     Suddenly, a soft knock disturbed her from finishing a chapter about Embrium. Knowing only Michael would come at such an hour to her room, Eleanor didn't think much about opening the door only wearing her sleeping gown.  
     The man waiting behind the door was not Michael. Commander Rutherford's eyes were fixed on her for a brief second before venturing to the side, avoiding looking at her at all costs. He cleared his throat, and Eleanor was surprised to find him awkward.  
     “My apologies for disturbing you at this kind of hour. But I require your services,” he said, still staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers to all questions regarding their problem with the Breach.  
     Instinctively, Eleanor pulled the gown tighter around her body. “My services?”  
     “Yes, I mean— definitely not like that!” he quickly corrected himself, finally noticing the sort of innuendo he'd claimed. “And, well. Not me. It's the Herald. Who requires your services. I mean help. Let's call it help.”  
     Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek, stopping herself from laughing at the display of the man responsible to prepare their army for battle. “Yes, let's call it that. What did he do now?” she asked, turning around to put a long fur coat around her body and slip into her boots, before she followed Commander Rutherford outside. The cold in the long hall immediately sipped through her clothes, and Eleanor shuddered.  
     “Well, he's enjoying a night at the tavern and—”  
     “Maker help us, he's drunk?”  
     “Yes.” Commander Rutherford finally relaxed a little. “He's drunk.”

     Eleanor scoffed, and rubbed her hands together in a poor attempt to warm them. She noticed the Commander was still wearing his uniform and gloves, the fur tickling his jaw looking warm and soft and with much jealousy Eleanor forced her eyes in front of her, more breath leaving through her lips in white clouds.  
     “He told me he fears I might tell embarrassing stories about him, but he doesn't need me for that. Trevelyan is very good at making a fool out of himself on his own,” she said grimly, thanking Commander Rutherford with a quick nod as he opened the Chantry's door and gestured her to step into the night. Eleanor immediately wished she could go back inside. Laughter and loud voices welcomed them, light and music blasted out of the tavern, and Eleanor wondered how none of the people had set it in flames, especially on cold nights like this when sleep seemed like the only solution to somehow make it through it. Apparently ale was a better answer. Lots of ale.

     “I haven't seen much of that yet,” Commander Rutherford said, a gloved hand on his chin. “But the night is still young, isn't it?”  
     Eleanor allowed herself a quick glance at Commander Rutherford's face and immediately averted it, when her eyes met his. He was smiling, a dimple on his left cheek. She tried not to think too hard about it.  
     “You'll regret these words, Commander,” Eleanor said at last, nearing the open door as the voices grew louder. “Especially because you will be tasked to help me get this slump into bed.”  
     His smile quickly turned into a frown, before he asked, “Why me?”  
     “Because Michael trusts you,” Eleanor explained. “Enough to ask you to look after him. Enough to ask you to go and get me.”  
     It was complicated and Eleanor didn't expect Commander Rutherford to understand. Right now, she just wanted to get this over with and climb in her warm bed where the warm fire was only steps away, and her windows closed, shielding her from the harsh wind.

     The chaos Eleanor expected was even worse. People stood on tables, singing loudly and getting beer all over everyone else. She found Michael easily because he was the centre of attention. Looking at it, there was little difference from when Michael was sober. It seemed he'd just finished telling a story, because people were laughing and pounding fists on tables, howling with approval. Eleanor just hoped she didn't play a part in any of those. When Michael finally noticed Eleanor and Cullen his hole face lit up.  
     “Ellen. Ellen!” he called, raising his arms like a little child. Eleanor pushed the thought of kicking him far, far away in her mind. “You came!”  
     “Yeah, I came.”  
     Sera snorted beside Michael. “Pff, she _came_.”  
     Both were equally a mess and equally drunk, but Eleanor thought Sera pulled it better off than Michael.  
     “Yes, and you'll come with me now. To bed.”  
     Immediately, this was met with lots of _boo_ s and _don't_ s and one _Looking dashing, Commander!_ Commander Rutherford cleared his throat beside her.  
     “Aw, come one. Drink with us. You've been here for what … two, three weeks?”  
     “It's been two months,” Eleanor corrected Michael, growing impatient.  
     “That's what I said,” Michael snorted.  
     “That's what he said,” Sera agreed, ignoring Eleanor's nasty glare.  
     “Herald, please call this to an end,” Commander Rutherford tried next. A brave soul indeed. “There is much work to do tomorrow and we need you ready and prepared.”  
     Michael stared at Commander Rutherford for a long time. Suddenly, he squinted. “You really _are_ handsome, Commander. That's frustrating.”  
     “If you're frustrated, maybe he can help you with that,” Sera giggled, wiggling her eyebrows. Eleanor groaned.  
     “By the Maker, you sound like Cassandra,” Michael noticed in awe, slightly leaning back in his chair. “Did you just give me the disgusted noise? I think you just gave me the disgusted noise!”  
     Sera shook her head in disapproval, nose scrunched up. “Disgusting.”  
     “Would you rather have Seeker Pentaghast come and sort this mess out?” Eleanor offered, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Luckily, the Lady Seeker's name held that much power. Sera quickly jumped to her feet, surprisingly steady and nimble for someone who'd spent all night in the tavern. “Fall back, fall back brave men and braver women! They're 'bout to call the mighty dragon-grumpy-poo!”

     The patrons scattered. Eleanor heard someone trying to climb through an open window. They didn't succeed, but Eleanor hoped the shrub on the other side caught their fall a little. Flissa gave her a tired smile.  
     “Come on, Trevelyan.” Eleanor brushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “You'll be home in no time.”  
     Michael giggled at that, and rose to unsteady feet. “You know that's not true. They don't want me there,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Fuck Ostwick.”  
     Eleanor inhaled sharply, and suddenly all the mirth dissipated into the cold air. She gestured to the Ex-Templar to join at Michael's other side, and both pulled an arm over their shoulder, steadying Michael as they left the tavern. The cold air seemed to hit Michael like a freezing bucket of water, and he tried to hide his face in the fur of Commander Rutherford's armour. Whatever he mumbled was lost in it as well, but Eleanor doubted it was anything coherent any way. When they reached the little house Michael inhabited, it took some time to unlock the door and freight Michael on his bed. Luckily, once they finally managed to put him under his blankets, Michael was already fast asleep.

     He looked a lot more relaxed and peaceful with his eyes closed, his thick lashes casting dark shadows under his eyes that could also be sleeping bags. Eleanor pushed the desire to run a hand through his curls away, and joined the Inquisition's commander outside the building.  
     “Thank you, Commander Rutherford,” she said. “Trevelyan can be a handful, but he means no harm.”  
     “I never accused him of doing so,” he replied after a moment, a frown putting a deep wrinkle on his forehead. “Or do you think I should see him as a threat?”  
     Eleanor wanted to say Yes, Michael was a threat with his witty ideas and dangerous charm, with his eyes so blue like the sky with its sun up in a happy promise to fulfil pretty wishes only to realize too late that one flew way too close to its beams and got burned. But the tiredness and exhaustion from the day left her with little energy for conversation, and even less for any sort of justification she felt obliged to use to protect Michael.  
     “Well, do you?” she simply asked.  
     Commander Rutherford didn't give her an easy answer. “It would be foolish to underestimate him,” he said. “He is a skilled mage, a formidable fighter. I have seen so myself. But so far, he has only helped everyone.”  
     _Ah, yes,_ Eleanor thought, _he tries so hard to be liked by everyone_. _It's rather sad, really_. A cold breeze swirled snow flakes into a dance in front of their feet, and Eleanor pulled the coat tighter around her upper body. The night advanced, and there were still many hours left before the sun reclaimed the day and brought with it new challenges to face.  
     “That's Michael for you,” she muttered. “Always helping. But it's good to know there are people ready to help him as well.” Eleanor gave Commander Rutherford a little smile; it was as close to a _thank you_ as she could manage.  
     “The Herald,” Commander Rutherford started, then lowered his voice as if he was sharing a secret with Eleanor. “Lord Trevelyan can consider himself a lucky man to have a close friend to help him on this journey. It's something not many have these days.”  
     Eleanor hummed, unable to stop herself from looking up at the commander and wondering if this was something he longed for himself. He was leading their forces, their army, and leadership was a lonely pursuit.

     “Well, I should retreat as well for today.” Commander Rutherford rubbed his neck, his eyes fixed at something far up on the mountains. “There really is a lot to attend to tomorrow.”  
     “Of course. Thank you again for your help, Commander Rutherford.” Eleanor gave him a little nod, but before they could part, she heard him say, “Commander is sufficient. Or Cullen. Rutherford sounds like mouthful, doesn't it.”  
     Eleanor wanted to say No. Instead she replied, “As you wish. Good night, Commander.” She watched Cullen retreat to the camp outside Haven's walls, and on her way back to her own chambers, she wondered how long it had taken the other templars in this Chantry to stop seeing him as a Knight-Commander, because even after this conversation, she clearly couldn't do it, not with the way he carried himself, not with how _war_ and _loss_ were invisible friends holding his hands all the time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun to write. In the next chapter we have more bonding moments and finally move the scene somewhere else. Let's hope no one gets hurt.


End file.
